


Intertwine

by Shinybug



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Beorn's House, First Time, Hair Braiding, M/M, Oral Sex, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:02:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3219941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinybug/pseuds/Shinybug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“To let someone else braid you is an intimacy. Brothers often do it for one another, or parents in our youth, or lovers when we are of age. I have none of these.” Thorin pulled a silver bead from the pouch and rolled it between his fingers, and his gaze on Bilbo held weight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intertwine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alexia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexia/gifts).



> This is for Alexia, in honor of our 20th Best-Friendiversary. It's a small thing compared to twenty years of laughter and tears, but it's more appropriate than a set of china, which is apparently the traditional 20th anniversary gift. How romantic. Baby, I love you enough to write hair porn for you. <3

~{*}~

The simple domesticity of Beorn’s home was an unexpected comfort to Bilbo after so long on the road, in a way that Rivendell, with all its luxury, had not been. In many ways it reminded him of his own hobbit hole, though less refined and scaled to suit a giant rather than one as diminutive as himself. It had all the signs of a home built with loving, flawed hands.

Beorn’s mead was warm in Bilbo’s belly as he quietly surveyed his companions around the hall, finishing their suppers with weary joviality as the firelight and smoke faded upwards into the lofty rafters. Kili leaned on Fili and sang a soft little childish song about a rabbit and a golden bowl that had Fili chuckling and looking wistful, and Bilbo wondered if he was thinking of the Blue Mountains, the only home he had ever known.

Thorin moved around the edge of the room, just in the shadows, his gait stiff and halting in a way it hadn’t been earlier. Perhaps Thorin thought no one was watching now, and he didn’t have to hide his accumulated injuries. Bilbo, however, was always watching whether he intended to or not. At some point, wholly without his knowledge, his gaze had trained itself to seek out Thorin Oakenshield in any setting, the way one would unconsciously seek the sun in the sky to determine the time of day.

Looking at him now as Thorin spoke quietly to their host, Bilbo saw the weight of exhaustion upon him. He saw in Thorin’s slow sweeping glance across the room that Thorin was wearier than all of them combined, his eyes dulled even in the warm light from the fire. His hair was wild and disheveled, his face dirty. He did not look like the same dwarf who had knocked upon his door and entered his hobbit hole with regal disdain.

Beorn made a rumbling soft reply and indicated vaguely in the direction of the back of the house. Thorin nodded his head and moved off again, pausing once to put his hand on Dwalin’s shoulder as he passed. Dwalin reached back to grip Thorin’s arm hard, a warrior’s reassurance, Bilbo supposed, and Thorin winced and wobbled but recovered before any but Bilbo noticed. He was halfway to his feet without thinking, and Thorin’s gaze shot to him like an unexpected arrow.

For a moment he was frozen under that blue stare, caught between sitting and standing, feeling foolish and hot in the cheeks. Then Thorin shuffled stiffly away into the depths of the house, leaving Bilbo to himself.

The others were absorbed in their own conversations and he had no one near him to share his thoughts with. He sat down slowly and sipped his mead, occasionally nibbling at the last crumbs on his plate and thinking absently how nice a warm raspberry tart with a bowl of clotted cream would be just now. Thinking of Thorin, slinking away like a dog to lick his wounds in isolation rather than let anyone see his weakness.

With terrifying clarity Bilbo could see Thorin’s limp form dangling from huge talons as they were carried through the air, his long hair swaying and tangling on itself. He could still feel the embrace Thorin gave him afterwards upon the Carrock, so startling; his arms had been so heavy and strong, his wild hair falling across Bilbo’s cheeks and catching on his mouth, the scents of war and of Thorin thick in Bilbo’s nose.

Bilbo’s face heated again and he stared into the bottom of his wooden cup. Things had been so much simpler in the Shire, it had been so easy to keep to himself and his routines. The years passed slowly, and in time Bilbo forgot what it was like to run down a hill trailing mud and fireflies in his wake. If not for Gandalf, he would still be a quiet, solitary hobbit, a sturdy wheel wearing a groove in his chosen track until the possibility of a sudden turn became impossible.

In all his years Bilbo had never had so much stimulation of his senses, and he feared that rather than hating it, rather than preferring the comforts of home, this ache in his breastbone meant he would always crave this excitement (Thorin) now. His old life before the arrival of dwarves was taking on the intangible aspect of a dream, softening around the edges like gauze.

He got to his feet before he meant to, and he wasn’t sure whether he intended to go after Thorin or run in the opposite direction, but he had committed to standing this time and decided to see it through. Oin was standing there when he turned from the table, and Bilbo blinked owlishly at him. Oin shoved a small blue jar into Bilbo’s hand, and Bilbo peered at it in bafflement.

“Oil,” said the healer, and looked expectantly at Bilbo.

“Oil,” Bilbo repeated, raising his eyebrows.

“For Thorin,” Oin elaborated.

“For...oh. Oh! Oh, um...I’m not sure you, ah, that is--” Bilbo flailed his free hand a bit, humming as he cut his own words off, giving up hope of coherence.

Oin looked amused, though it was hard to tell behind the beard. “For Thorin’s hair. His favorite. He’s gone off to bathe, and he forgot his hair oil.”

Bilbo looked at the jar again, avoiding Oin’s twinkling eyes. “Ah! Hair oil. Of course. I will see he gets it. I will go right now, and do that.” He gave an awkward salute with the jar, pretending he didn’t see Oin biting his lips to keep from smiling, and went off on his important mission. Bless Oin for giving him a legitimate reason to seek Thorin out.

Then he recalled what Oin had said, that Thorin was bathing, and Bilbo turned right around in the hallway and took three steps back toward the others, then spun again and marched ahead, telling himself not to be a ninny. He would simply give the king his hair oil and bid him a good night.

He wasn’t entirely sure which room Thorin had retreated to, although in the end it became obvious when he heard a soft splash of water and saw a thin glow of firelight from under a door. He knocked lightly before he could lose his courage, and at Thorin’s inquiry he replied, “It’s me, Bilbo Baggins,” as polite as anything.

There was a longer silence than Bilbo was expecting, and then, “Come in then, Master Halfling.”

He pushed the door open and found himself in a modest room with a giant’s bed in one corner, with thick oaken posts and piled with furs, and an enormous basin of water, big enough to sit in. Thorin himself stood beside it wearing only a long shirt which hung nearly to his knees and clung to his damp skin. He held a towel in his hands, while water dripped from the ends of his hair and made soft pattering sounds on the wood floor.

Bilbo stared, his mouth dry, his purpose forgotten.

Thorin’s eyes were soft but guarded, his lids lowered tiredly. After a moment he asked, “Was there something you needed?”

“Oh!” Bilbo startled a bit, shaking himself, and raised his hand to show Thorin the jar. “Oin said you needed this. For your hair.”

Thorin’s face did something complicated and fleeting, and before Bilbo could determine what it meant the king held out his hand, and Bilbo stepped forward into the room to hand it to him. Thorin’s fingers brushed firmly against his during the exchange, no accidental touch, and Bilbo shivered.

“My thanks, Master Halfling,” Thorin said, his voice a quiet rumble that tickled Bilbo’s ears.

“You could really just call me Bilbo,” Bilbo blurted. “I mean, my friends call me Bilbo. I would like to think we are friends.”

“Aye, we are friends,” Thorin agreed, looking at the jar of oil with more intent than it seemed to warrant. “You’ve saved my life, and I yours. At the least, we are friends.”

Bilbo smiled and nodded. “Good. I’m glad.”

Thorin returned the smile, rarely seen but lovely beyond measure to Bilbo’s mind. He moved to sit on a roughly hewn stool near the fireplace, pulling a comb from a leather pouch and beginning to gather his hair in one hand.

“Well, now my task is done, you are well equipped for your, um...grooming.” Bilbo winced a little at his own awkwardness, and shuffled back a bit toward the door. “I suppose I shall seek my bedroll. There was a patch of hay next to one of the goats that looked marginally comfortable.”

Thorin stiffened visibly.“You may bathe if you like, the water is still warm,” he said, a bit too loudly for such a small room.

Bilbo was ever so glad that Thorin did not look at him when he said it, because Bilbo was certain he looked like a hooked trout on a line. “I...I suppose I should. Who knows when the chance will come again, eh?”

The tension in Thorin’s shoulders eased and he made an agreeable noise, focusing on his own hair and the comb in his hand. Bilbo shucked his clothes as fast as he could and submerged himself in the water. Barely above tepid it might be, but it was heaven on his poor abused muscles and he sighed lustily, leaning his head back on the rim. Thorin’s glance flickered his way and then back again to his comb, but Bilbo sensed his attention was still focused on him, the same way he himself was always peripherally aware of Thorin.

The dwarf king looked much better now than he had at supper, Bilbo was relieved to see. There was a careful deliberation to his movements that suggested he was still favoring his sword arm, but all in all he seemed more relaxed than exhausted, more contemplative than lonely. Bilbo dared to hope that his presence had helped with that in some small way.

For long minutes there was companionable silence between them. From somewhere in the house Kili’s laughter echoed, the sound rebounding off the walls and reaching them like a kind of soft music. Bilbo found the soap and washed himself, ducking his head to soak his own unruly hair and remove the last traces of battle sweat, smoke, and blood. The water in the basin was far from sanitary, but Bilbo found he did not care. A great many things that had mattered before seemed less important now.

“I did not know dwarves were so fastidious about their hair,” Bilbo commented, watching Thorin at work.

“Did you not?” The sideways glance Thorin gave him was warm and maybe just a bit amused.

“I had met very few dwarves before this company,” Bilbo said, rinsing the last of the soap from his hair. “For the most part, Other Folk avoid the Shire unless trade is required. It is rare to see Men or dwarves there, elves even rarer still.”

Thorin worked at a snarl with his comb. “We take pride in our hair as an expression of our deepest selves. A dwarf who does not care for his hair and beard but allows it to grow wild and tangled as an animal can be counted on to be just as careless with his kin and kind. A dwarf who keeps himself groomed shows himself to be likewise careful with those around him.”

Bilbo smiled, thinking of Thorin’s hair in battle, flying like a sentient thing around his head, whipping in the wind. “It must be difficult for you, these last weeks without a proper bath.”

Thorin huffed softly. “On a journey such as this, certain things must be set aside. Familiar customs are discarded...needs are ignored. I have the opportunity now, I will make the most of it.” He looked finally at Bilbo, openly and unblinking, and there could be little doubt the king spoke of more than hair. There was a such a wealth of naked yearning in his countenance, like a glittering hoard suddenly unguarded, that Bilbo actually felt a physical pull toward Thorin’s darkly shining eyes.

Bilbo took a long slow breath and let it out just as slowly as Thorin resumed his combing, and after a long moment pulled his eyes away from Bilbo and back to his work. Bilbo ran the bar of soap over his privates, but now he was acutely aware of his own touch, and he couldn’t help his hand’s sly tease over his half-full cock, watching Thorin out of the corner of his eye.

When the water became uncomfortably cool Bilbo rose from the basin and dried himself with a rough towel that sat folded nearby. He felt a great uncertainty about what he should do next, like clinging to the face of a mountain in the dark, no way to see where to put his foot next. He knew what he wanted--what he had always wanted--from Thorin even since that first judgmental moment in the doorway of his home, but the intricacies of this sort of thing escaped him.

In any case it felt odd to proceed while naked, especially if he had badly misunderstood Thorin’s intentions. He was loathe to put his dirty clothes back on, but he had no others and so reluctantly he pulled his shirt over his head and his trousers back on. He ran his fingers through his hair, shaking out his wet curls around his pointed ears.

When he turned to the king he found he was being watched. “Is something wrong?” he asked, his heart skipping a bit.

Thorin shook his head, looking uncomfortable. “Only that I...am having trouble with a snarl back here,” he admitted, indicating the back of his head. “I am used to doing this myself, but since the battle I cannot easily reach.” With obvious reluctance he tugged the collar of his shirt to show Bilbo the dark spreading bruise upon his shoulder.

“Oh. May I help you then?” Bilbo asked, reaching tentatively for the comb, wondering if such an intimate task was reserved for one’s kin. “Or would you rather I summon one of the others?”

“No, I would rather you did it,” Thorin said gruffly, and handed him the comb.

Bilbo turned the comb over in his hands, admiring the design. It was made of silver, with smooth tines well worn from thousands of strokes through hair, and runes carved into the handle along with a grooved interlocking pattern he recognized from the beads Thorin wore in his braids. “This is lovely, Thorin.”

“It is the work of my grandmother. She was skilled at silversmithing. A sapphire was once set in it, but I sold it years ago to keep food on my family’s plates. Though I could not part with the comb.” A wistfulness had passed over Thorin’s face, a longing that made him seem younger, and Bilbo could almost but not quite imagine a young dwarf prince with the world at his feet and a heart unscarred by dragon fire.

Bilbo swallowed around a lump in his throat and touched his fingers lightly to Thorin’s head, letting the strands slide between them until he found the knot. Thorin sat still as a carven statue upon the stool, his breathing deep slow, as though carefully measured. Bilbo worked diligently at the tangle, smoothing the locks slowly with the comb until they loosened and fell free.

In this near darkness Thorin’s hair was inky black, but the firelight caught the strands of gold and silver at his temples, at his widow’s peak, woven through his heavy fall of hair like precious metals spun into thread. Bilbo did not stop once the knot was free but instead plied the comb to those shimmering rivulets of color, entranced by the motion of his own hands and the feel of the king’s hair.

The heat from the fire had warmed the heavy mane, and Bilbo drew the comb slowly through from crown to mid-back, seeking further tangles. Thorin made a tiny, choked off sound of pleasure, and Bilbo repeated the motion in order to hear it again. He felt a small, strange power surge through his chest, as though he had been granted a precious gift: Thorin, vulnerable, open, hurting and feeling and just a dwarf, bloodlines aside.

“Do you want the oil now?” Bilbo asked, and was surprised to hear how hoarse his own voice had become.

Thorin nodded, opening the jar and holding it for Bilbo to dip his fingers in. “Ends first, then the rest,” he instructed, his voice just as unsteady.

Bilbo rubbed his palms together and then gathered Thorin’s hair, the thick heft of it intimidating in his small hands. He began to work the oil into the ends and the scent of it filled the air, familiar from that one cherished embrace. There was something dark and spiced, unrefined and savory rather than sweet, reminding him of freshly tilled earth warming in the sun. It struck him in the gut like a blow and he sucked in a breath of it, then another, and the fire of it raced through his blood and filled his cock, and his knees trembled.

When he had finally worked his way up to the crown of Thorin’s head, he dipped his fingers again and then set to working the oil into Thorin’s temples and hairline, and Thorin’s head tipped back into his touch, the way a cat would anticipate a stroking hand and lean toward it in a silent demand for more.

Bilbo circled his fingertips gently and stroked downward through the length of the dark strands, imagining that he could pull the king’s worries and pain out through his hair and push it down into the earth, leaving only pleasure and comfort in their place. In response Thorin shuddered before him, a long shiver and a low moan, which weakened Bilbo’s knees.

“Braids?” Bilbo whispered, unable to be more eloquent.

Thorin swallowed hard. “Please,” he replied, a mere thread of breath.

Bilbo only knew the simplest of plaits, recalled from his childhood when the village children would practice on each other, a game of giggling and tugging and ultimately chasing, braids unravelling free as they ran. He could make a three-stranded plait, and trusted his shaking fingers to do their job by rote. He stepped to Thorin’s side in order to better reach his temples to braid there, and Thorin looked up at him sideways through his dark eyelashes, his expression open, eyes shimmering.

Bilbo cleared his throat and his fingers continued their rhythmic work, intertwining the long strands, smoothing and untangling at intervals. “You said you usually do this for yourself. Wouldn’t one of the others do this for you? In the Shire, friends do this for each other as children.”

Thorin’s hands twitched in his lap, flexing uselessly around the pouch that had held his comb, and Bilbo’s eyes were drawn to the hem of Thorin’s shirt resting low on his bared thigh. The hair on his legs looked silky, and Bilbo tore his gaze away.

“To let someone else braid you is an intimacy. Brothers often do it for one another, or parents in our youth, or lovers when we are of age. I have none of these.” Thorin pulled a silver bead from the pouch and rolled it between his fingers, and his gaze on Bilbo held weight.

A pained sound escaped Bilbo’s throat, and his eyes prickled with tears he resolved not to show. He firmed his chin and took the bead from Thorin’s hand, letting his fingers drag across Thorin’s palm deliberately, pleased at the sharp inhalation of the king’s breath. He secured the bead to the end of the first braid before moving to the other side, and Thorin’s gaze followed him.

“You are lonely, surrounded by kin,” Bilbo said, separating strands carefully.

Thorin gave a small shrug. “A king is always so. It must be thus.”

“I am the same, now that I think on it,” Bilbo observed. “Although I have nothing like kingship for my excuse.”

“Why are you lonely then, Bilbo Baggins?”

“I suppose...I suppose I have always been the odd one out. Just odd enough that no one wants to get close. No other hobbit I know would have undertaken this foolhardy journey, not even the Tooks. At least not without a promise of better food along the way,” Bilbo amended ruefully. “I don’t really mind, truly. I have my books, and my garden.”

“And I have naught but an old dream and an invisible crown,” said Thorin, handing Bilbo the second bead for his braid. “But these are cold bedfellows on a winter’s night.”

“True,” agreed Bilbo, dipping his fingers in the jar one more time and smoothing down the two plaits until they shone. It was not the elegant four-stranded round pattern he was used to seeing on Thorin, but they were smooth and even, and he felt pride that he had made them. “It is lucky then, to make an unexpected friend. And a king, no less! I know a certain Sackville-Baggins who would curdle with jealousy if she knew.”

Thorin caught Bilbo’s oiled hands in his and pressed them to his beard. For a heart-stopping moment Bilbo lost every thought in his head, until he realized what Thorin wanted, and then set to sliding his palms over the king’s short-trimmed beard. The hair of his beard was thicker than that of his head, but softer than he had expected, like the pelt of some forest animal.

Gently he stroked, framing Thorin’s face with his hands until the king’s beard gleamed. With his thumbs he smoothed over Thorin’s mustache, daring to brush the thin seam of his lips, barely parted. “I do believe I’m getting the better end of the deal, friendship-wise,” Bilbo murmured as lightly as he could, while Thorin watched him with eyes like fire burning blue at its core. “What a king wants with a hobbit’s heart I’m sure I don’t know.”

Thorin grasped Bilbo’s wrists in his huge hands and held Bilbo’s palms there against his cheeks. “You weigh your own heart on a faulty scale,” he chided roughly. “And I think you know very well what I want with it.”

Bilbo took a measure of time to regard Thorin, to think of his own response. The air between them was thick as honey and richly scented when Bilbo moved between Thorin’s bare knees, and Thorin let him come, his eyes glittering in the shadows.

“I’ve given you my courage, and you have my friendship. If you would have my heart as well, I will give it whole to you, Thorin Oakenshield. Truly, it has never hurt so much, nor beat so hard with joy, as it has since meeting you.”

Thorin’s face creased in an expression of mingled pain and happiness, an echo of what Bilbo felt, and he surged forward to catch Bilbo’s mouth with his own. The king tasted of honeyed mead and smoke, like home and the very opposite of home all at once. His tongue was slick against Bilbo’s and Bilbo felt the flex of Thorin’s jaw under his fingers, where they still held his cheeks. Bilbo’s breath came heavy when he broke the kiss to press his lips to Thorin’s beard, to abrade his mouth with that scented fur, and he followed the whorls of it down Thorin’s neck to taste the skin there, while Thorin tipped his head back and groaned.

Bilbo pressed his face to Thorin’s chest, feeling the thud of his heart through the thin linen shirt. When he slid further down to kneel between his legs Thorin made a sound like a wounded bear, and Bilbo reverently stroked the soft hair of his calves and thighs, moving upwards to the hem of his shirt and slowly baring to his gaze and touch the king’s full cock.

“Bilbo,” Thorin whispered, and Bilbo took him in his mouth, a wide stretch that he hadn’t felt since his youthful indiscretions. His own blood burned hot in his veins, spurring him into a relentless rhythm as he took Thorin as deep as he could into his throat, choking on him and unable to breathe and still it wasn’t enough.

Thorin grabbed him by the back of the neck and hauled him off and upwards, and Bilbo had a glimpse of wild blue eyes as he was pulled in to straddle Thorin’s lap on the stool. He hooked his legs around Thorin’s waist and held on as Thorin took his mouth with desperate gentleness, as though he was trying with all his heart not to be too rough.

Bilbo, for his part, thought this was poppycock, and tightened his hands in Thorin’s hair until Thorin felt the pull and strained against it, his white teeth flashing in a fierce grin.

“I killed an orc for you. I stood between you and death. You don’t scare me, and you can’t hurt me.” Bilbo punctuated his words with a sharp tug on Thorin’s hair, and Thorin made a sound in his throat like great stones grinding together, rocking his hips into Bilbo’s. His bare cock smeared wetly against Bilbo’s trousers, and the burn of it was so good that for an agonizing moment Bilbo feared he might come before Thorin even touched him.

In a flash he had slipped off Thorin’s lap to deftly shuck his shirt and trousers, quick as a thief, before helping Thorin out of his own shirt and resuming his seat upon his thighs.

“Smooth little hobbit,” Thorin murmured, running his hands down Bilbo’s pale hairless chest and soft stomach to grasp his hips.

Bilbo pressed himself close to Thorin to feel that warm pelt against his skin, thrilled at their differences and their similarities. “We hobbits are proud of our tufted feet,” he said breathlessly, and Thorin ran his hand down Bilbo’s leg to feel behind him where Bilbo had dug in his ankles. Bilbo could feel his thick fingers exploring the curling fur there, tickling lightly.

“Very impressive,” Thorin said, amused. “But I couldn’t braid it.”

Bilbo gently bit Thorin’s ear. “No, but the hair on my head is nearly long enough, is it not?”

Thorin shuddered against him, a long rumbling shiver, but whether it was from the bite or the suggestion of braiding Bilbo wasn’t certain. “Aye, very nearly,” Thorin agreed, grasping Bilbo’s hips and shifting him until their cocks aligned and Bilbo groaned, dropping his forehead to Thorin’s shoulder and letting Thorin’s greater strength move them together.

“Would you let me have you like this, _buhel_ , would you take me inside?”

Thinking of how Thorin’s cock in his mouth had not been nearly enough, thinking of how badly he needed to feel a connection, he nodded a firm yes despite not being sure how pleasurable it would be. He had attempted it in his youth and ultimately found it satisfying but not quite pleasant. With Thorin though, he didn’t care, he wanted it anyway if only to please his friend.

“I cannot guarantee you will sit a horse comfortably tomorrow,” Thorin said, pressing his forehead to Bilbo’s.

“You assume I could sit one comfortably yesterday,” Bilbo replied, and Thorin kissed him deeply, fumbling with a free hand for something nearby and then pressing a slick finger between Bilbo’s cheeks. Bilbo realized he was using the hair oil and gasped out a chuckle even as he clenched reflexively on Thorin’s thick finger.

“You laugh at me?” Thorin inquired, twisting his finger and sending a crackle of heat up Bilbo’s spine.

“Erm...no, not as such.” He wiggled slightly downwards, seeking the sensation again.

Thorin hummed softly. “The oil has many uses, which is why it is my favorite.”

“Indeed it does,” Bilbo agreed, leaning in to lick at Thorin’s ear. “I’m quite fond of it myself.”

Thorin slicked his other hand and brought it between them to grasp their two cocks together, and Bilbo smothered his shout into Thorin’s neck. “Thorin,” he said, a whole conversation’s worth of words compressed into the name.

“Not yet,” Thorin argued, “you are very small, and I am...not.”

“I was under the impression that a snug fit was ideal.”

“Under these circumstances, there is such a thing as too snug,” he replied, slipping a second finger beside the first and Bilbo’s vision went white for a moment. Each of Thorin’s fingers was as thick as two of Bilbo’s together.

“Thorin,” he pleaded, rocking into Thorin’s hands, back and front, unable to choose which movement was more sublime. “I really think this must be good enough.”

“Pushy halfling,” Thorin muttered, driving his fingers in hard a few times while Bilbo’s eyes rolled back in his head.

At Thorin’s sudden retreat Bilbo opened his eyes to protest, and found himself being carried three short steps to the bed, where Thorin lay back on the pillows as regally as you please, Bilbo still astride his lap. Bilbo eyed him narrowly for a moment, thinking, and then shook his head. “No, you, up,” he said, swinging his leg over and motioning for Thorin to move.

Thorin’s arched eyebrow was incredulous, but he made way for Bilbo, who lay down in his place. “I am not accustomed to being ordered about,” said Thorin, who nevertheless was accommodating as Bilbo arranged the king’s limbs exactly where he wanted them.

“And yet you take my orders surprisingly well,” Bilbo observed. He tugged until Thorin was between his thighs once more and leaning above him, until the dark curtain of Thorin’s hair fell heavily around Bilbo’s head and enveloped him in fragrant shadow. He closed his eyes and arched his neck, breathing in deeply as Thorin shifted his hips and pressed slowly, slickly within him. The burn was bright and beautiful, and Bilbo thought that perhaps the crucial element that had been missing from his youthful experiences had been Thorin.

“You are stronger than you seem, _buhel_ ,” Thorin gasped on an exhaled breath, finding a ceaseless rhythm that suited them both.

Bilbo slid his hands up Thorin’s torso, furrowing through dark hair shot with silver, and hooked his fingertips on Thorin’s collarbone. Beneath his palms a war drum was beating so hard he was surprised he could not hear it. “And you are softer than you first appear.”

“Am I now?” Thorin laughed, pausing to lean down for a kiss before snapping his hips forward hard, rocking Bilbo against the headboard.

“You know what I mean,” Bilbo chastised, slipping his hands boldly within the wild fall of Thorin’s hair and holding on tight. Thorin felt the grip and his eyes widened gratifyingly, and then he gave Bilbo a suspicious look.

“I begin to think, my dear Bilbo, that you and my hair are carrying on some separate affair beneath my nose.”

Bilbo circled his hand and wrapped the fistful of hair tighter around his wrist, testing his own strength and Thorin’s reaction, which was to hiss in a breath and falter in his motion. “My friend,” Bilbo returned pointedly, “if you were not attached at the other end I would not be nearly so infatuated with your hair, I promise.”

“I am not some pony to be led about,” Thorin growled, but there was a hint of a smile in his voice and his rocking rhythm quickened and intensified.

Bilbo swallowed and dropped his eyes, releasing one handful and touching Thorin’s braced forearm. “I would not presume to force you.”

Thorin shook his head and leaned into Bilbo’s hand. “You could not, and you do not. Forgive me. Tug away, I will follow.”

Bilbo blinked. “I don’t want you to follow, I want you to stay. Stay with me.” In that moment, even as he said it, he realized how true it was--his impulse to hold on so tightly came from the fear that the end of their journey would bring neither mountain nor crown, and he would be separated from Thorin Oakenshield forever.

Thorin’s eyes filled with something Bilbo didn’t have the ability to quantify, and he drove into Bilbo as though he could deny his words, or erase them with passion. Bilbo’s blood raced hotter and he felt his peak approaching despite the fear in his heart, which once acknowledged could not be ignored again. Bilbo turned his face away and Thorin’s braid fell cool and smooth across his hot cheek, taunting and tantalizing.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said, a plea as he wrapped his fist around Bilbo’s cock and drew his pleasure from him in a fiery rush. Bilbo tightened his legs around Thorin’s hips as though he could lock him in place, and Thorin stiffened in his hold, pumping helplessly into Bilbo with a guttural cry. Bilbo’s mind went blessedly blank as he lay there beneath Thorin's slowly sinking weight, shivering at intervals as fire flickered through him with every breath.

Thorin's forearms began to tremble and he levered himself almost clumsily off of Bilbo to fall beside him. Sweat cooled, breath calmed, and the minutes stretched out between them. The house was all silence; it seemed the dwarves had turned to their bedrolls for the night. Eventually Bilbo opened his eyes and turned his head to find Thorin watching him from inches away, his eyes softer than Bilbo had ever seen them.

"I will never again be able to smell this oil without embarrassing myself," Thorin admitted, gathering the hair back from his face with a practised hand.

"You now see what has been my problem all along," replied Bilbo, stretching his legs out and wiggling his toes.

Thorin hummed softly. "Have I gravely injured you?"

"Not gravely. I would gladly recover from these wounds a thousand times."

Thorin reached out a hand to touch Bilbo's own, stilling the hobbit's fingers where they drummed restlessly on his smooth belly. "A thousand times is quite a lot, but we dwarves are nothing if not relentless in pursuit of a dream. I accept your challenge and pledge myself to your service, Bilbo Baggins of Bag End."

Bilbo chuckled and caught Thorin's hand with his, marveling at the difference in size. "A thousand times, let's see. Assuming at least once a day, adding twice on Sundays and subtracting an appropriate amount for sick days and battle days, I believe that indentures you to me for approximately three years. You cannot leave me for three years, Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain."

Thorin sighed. "Bilbo--"

"No. You cannot leave me." Bilbo's voice was as firm as a hobbit's had ever been, for hobbits in their own way could match dwarves for stubbornness.

"Bilbo." Thorin leaned up on one arm, his face stone hard. "Truly, I believe I would stay by your side for a thousand years, never mind a thousand days, were destiny mine to command. But I am no more able to count my days than you can count yours."

Bilbo worked some thoughts around in his head and some words around in his mouth, but in the end he just nodded stiffly. Thorin pressed his lips to Bilbo's forehead, and then to his mouth.

"Subtracting for battle days?" Thorin mused, pulling back to give him a curious look. "Twice on battle days, more like."

"I was allowing for your greater age," Bilbo explained, blocking the gentle swat Thorin swiped his way.

"Are you insinuating something about my stamina, halfling? I guarantee that even in my twilight years I shall rise to the occasion."

"I do hope so. Hobbits are notoriously insatiable. You saw how many children were running around the Shire."

Thorin made a doubtful face. "Unless I misunderstand hobbit gender, children are something I can't offer you."

"That's all right, I much prefer other people's children in the end. Less personal responsibility for the unfortunate way they may turn out." Bilbo moved Thorin's arm and lay his head down between bruises there, getting comfortable.

"Clearly you do not have nephews," Thorin replied dourly, huffing at Bilbo's snort and then resting his chin on Bilbo's head.

A while later, when the fire had burned low and Thorin's eyes had become heavy, Bilbo poked him in the ribs. "You were perfectly capable of combing your own hair, weren't you?"

Thorin cleared his throat. "I merely said it was difficult for me. I'm afraid you drew your own conclusions after that. I couldn't refuse such a kind offer."

"Insufferable dwarf. Well, I'm glad you forgot your hair oil, in any case, and that Oin was thoughtful enough to send me on a mission to give it to you. Without that excuse, I would likely still be frozen in the doorway staring at your bare knees, or worse still, dithering alone in the hall imagining your bare knees."

There was some suspicious shifting from Thorin, who then said, "Yes, about that. I didn't forget the oil. Oin gave me a bottle before supper, and it's sitting right over there on the table."

Bilbo processed that for a moment. "I see. Is there any chance that Oin forgot that exchange?"

"Not likely," Thorin said, readjusting Bilbo and pressing his nose below Bilbo's ear, nuzzling with some intent.

"So you think Oin was trying to be...helpful?"

"In his way, yes," came Thorin's answer, a bit muffled into Bilbo's neck.

"Oh, my stars," said Bilbo. "What will the others say?"

"I imagine not many of them will be surprised your bedroll lies empty tonight." Thorin's huge hand tilted Bilbo's head back, cradling his neck and holding him still for a kiss that lasted a very long time, longer in fact than Bilbo would have guessed a dwarf had patience for. Then again, Bilbo mused to himself as he happily drowned in Thorin's kiss, this was a dwarf who had waited nearly one hundred years for a crown, so he supposed that patience could be a learned trait.

"Thorin?"

"You talk a great deal at the oddest times for one who claims to be insatiable in bed," Thorin complained, biting Bilbo's collarbone.

"What does _'buhel'_ mean?" Bilbo twined some of Thorin's dark hair around his finger and thought how much he would like to be around to see his whole head turn silver.

Thorin grew still and rested his forehead on Bilbo's chest. " _Buhel_ means 'friend above all friends.' It is...the highest honor I could give you."

Bilbo smiled, his eyes prickling again. "That's well enough, I suppose. You may carry on then, my _buhel_."

The dwarf king’s long-suffering sigh was a bit on the dramatic side, Bilbo thought, but he did indeed carry on.

~{*}~


End file.
